


Borderlands

by seperis



Series: The Atlantis Project [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-04
Updated: 2006-07-04
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:45:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interlude while on the run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borderlands

Rodney closes his eyes when John's hand trails up his inner thigh. The only thing holding him up is the door hard against his back, scratchy against damp palms. He's sweating for entirely different reasons than the heat that bakes the room.

"Make sure the belt is firmly fastened," John murmurs, breath warm and moist against the skin of Rodney's belly. Rodney drags in a breath by sheer will as John's hands ghost over his waist, cupping his hips to slide down the outside of his thighs, left hand stopping and dipping inward, pulling the first strap into place. "Then buckle the thigh straps." With every movement, Rodney can almost feel the back of John's hand against his cock, the trail of fingers as the first buckle snaps into place. Rodney forces his eyes open, forces himself to look at John kneeling at his feet, long fingers expertly pulling the second buckle through, every brush of pressure against Rodney's thigh like a touch to his cock.

His breath catches as John picks up the gun from the floor, checking the safety before sliding it into the holster. The weight's an unfamiliar pull, the straps pressing into his leg as he shifts experimentally, trying not to think about everything that's wrong with this moment, the least of which is the fact he's panting and two minutes from orgasm from the fact John armed him.

John stands up, a slow, full body brush that makes Rodney jerk, forcing his hands into the door to keep from reaching. John's hands cup his hips, easing him away from the door, and Rodney watches John reach behind himself, pulling out the slim knife, a smile quirking one corner of his mouth as both arms slide around his waist, and Rodney's eyes close again as John slides it into the sheath at the small of Rodney's back.

Sixty miles across the border, John's little pills burned him out, and Rodney drove into Santa Anita looking for anyplace that looked like a motel while John slept in the passenger seat, John's gun in his lap. He's really beginning to feel like a fugitive these days. The accessories, he has to admit, looking at the gun pressing into his leg, are nothing to sneeze at.

John steps back, head tilted, and Rodney's eyes are drawn to the pants, low on John's hips, the t-shirt that clings to every muscle, the tanned arms, and most of all, the way John's eyes narrow as they take him in.

"I like it," John says, and his body seems to agree. Rodney takes a slow step, feeling the knife against his back, the weight of the gun, and then another, moving into John's personal space, close enough to feel him warm through his shirt. The hazel eyes flare briefly with something as hot as the night outside.

"Tomorrow," John whispers, and Rodney can almost *taste* him, "tomorrow, we go out and practice shooting." Closer now, until Rodney can feel John's lips against his, the brush of John's cock against his hip, hard through the thin material of his pants. "I'll get you your own gun."

God, Rodney's so fucked. He breathes in the sharp scent of male sweat, chalky water from the sink where John wiped his face when he woke up, toothpaste, rising beneath it the heavy musk of John, arousal, and Rodney brushes his tongue against John's lips, taking in the mint and salt before both hands come up, fingers twining in John's hair to hold him close.

And his back is against the door, thank God, John's thigh pressed between his, and he licks into John's mouth, unwilling to give it up even to get his pants unfastened. He's so hard it *hurts* and the sensitive head already burns from the friction of rubbing into the rough material. He wants--God, just this, John's hand around the back of his neck and his mouth pliant, body hard against Rodney's.

Then John's hand is between them, thank God, unbuckling the belt one-handed, thumbing open the button with more coordination than Rodney can ever have claimed, pressing down the zipper before tearing his mouth away, teeth fastening delicately in the side of his throat, below his ear like he's marking the places he's been, settling on the hard beat of Rodney's pulse as his hand finds Rodney's cock.

"Christ," Rodney hears himself whisper, beginning to shake, tilting his head to give John better access, catching his breath when John's teeth sink into his throat, mouthing the line of his jaw. John's hand pulls away, and Rodney hears the sound of a zipper, and oh God, yes, *brilliant* idea, cock against cock before John takes them both in hand and Rodney forgets to breathe. "Yeah. That."

"Rodney," John breathes against his skin, then his mouth is hard against Rodney's, jerking them off together, rough and almost painful and so close to perfect. He can feel the sheathed knife digging into his back from the pressure of John's body pushing him into the door, the gun weighing his thigh, finally untangling one hand to slide down, wrap an arm around John's waist, pushing into the top of John's pants to get skin, warm and slick and soft. Press his short nails in to get a groan, scratching to feel John jerk against him. 

It's awkward and uncomfortable and Rodney wouldn't trade it for the most comfortable bed in the country, feeling everything like this, pressing deeper until he can grab John's ass, pull them in as close as they can get. Rodney can feel John's every breath, short and uneven, the way he shivers, new sweat breaking out as he licks open Rodney's lips, coming with his tongue in Rodney's mouth. It's over, done, the slick wetness between them sending Rodney over the edge in a tumble that has to be what freefall feels like, no parachute and nothing but sky.

John's body is warm and heavy against his, crushing him into the door, and they're still kissing as their come dries between them, kissing when they slide to the floor. They part long enough to shuck stained clothes, crawl onto the ancient mattress and musty, rough sheets, unable to stop touching, tasting, learning and memorizing and *needing*, and Rodney falls asleep between one slow, sleepy kiss and the next, taking John's taste with him.


End file.
